It has been said that if all the inhabitants of Sri Lanka were to leave the island for six months they would return to nothing but a vast consuming blanket of vegetation. You can almost feel this island growing beneath your feet. The intensely orange earth is home to giant bamboo, rubber trees, fat pineapples, towering teak, king coconut, coffee, tea, cocoa, bananas - red, yellow, green - and some of the warmest, most welcoming people on the planet.

And this is where the contradictions begin. It is also an island nation haunted by the violence of the Tamil Tigers, still intent on their separatist agenda. With a presidential election looming, this vital, vibrant place seems more fragile still. And then, of course, there's the tsunami, which devastated a thin crescent of coastline to the east and south.

Yet this flawed jewel is more than worth the 11-hour flight from London. On arrival, you feel as though you have stepped into a biome at the Eden Project. And, in truth, it is some sort of paradise, an immediate assault on the senses, particularly if yours have been dulled by the ubiquitous grey of western city life. A snake of schoolchildren pass by in snow-white uniforms, their feet bare; men in slacks stare from shacks; women in emerald saris dodge tuk-tuks. A roadside glass cabinet houses a weeping Jesus; another is home to Buddha. Next door, a Hindu temple is overrun with carvings of the gods, executed in random paint-box colours. Motorbikes careen past, laden with boxes of fish and bolts of batik. A snake crosses the road. I could have sworn he looked left and right first, which is more than the human inhabitants seem to manage.

The easiest - and safest - way to get around Sri Lanka is to hire a driver, who will also act as your guide, money changer and translator. Mine is Karu, a man well versed in the history, traditions and quirky driving practices of his native land.

Driving through this country is ideal in many ways, so long as you don't have a problem with triple-overtaking. It gives the foreign observer time to stop and stare, to drink in this stew of colour and sound. A man squats in the dust, fixing the long-broken spokes of a bicycle wheel. Bungalows huddle beneath the shelter of palms, a jumble of coconuts, stray dogs and tall lilies at the gate. A kingfisher sits on a telegraph pole.

There is something jarring about stepping from this into the rarefied atmosphere of a top-notch resort hotel. The Beach at Negombo, 20 minutes drive from Colombo airport, is a five-star affair, designed in a breezy, modern style. The rooms are generous, with vast baths, waterfall showers and impressive views over the Indian Ocean. In the morning, square-sailed catamarans fill the view as far as the eye can see, out early to secure the catch of the day.

On the three-hour drive to Kandy, we stop at Spice Garden Number 27. A genial gentleman ushers me past his specimen chillies and cardamom, vanilla pods and sandalwood, ingredients in his Ayurvedic cures for acne and flatulence, baldness and erectile dysfunction. I spend 2,000 rupees on a slimming tonic made from unripe pineapples and lime juice. It is the least I can do, having enjoyed a complimentary cup of hot chocolate and an invigorating scalp massage, while macaque monkeys larked about in the coconut palms overhead.

Villa Rosa, our next overnight stop, is perched at the peak of the hill in Asgiriya near Kandy, looking out over the lush, deep valley of the Mahaweli, Sri Lanka's longest river. From its lookout balcony, you can spot the white tip of a stupa rising above the trees. Or herons, cormorants or a green parakeet soaring above the men on bamboo rafts who dredge illegally for sand at the water's edge.

In the evening, the idle visitor can sit beneath Venus, serenaded by a chorus of exotic nocturnal sounds. Excellent curries are brought to your table at a time of your choosing: pumpkin, green bean, aubergine, with sambals of onion or coconut, chutneys and pastes made from coriander and curry leaf and sweet, heavy mango.

The villa itself is laid-back rather than chic, comfortable rather than cool - which is all to its advantage. This place is an organic, rightful part of its environment, not some hotel-chain imposition grafted on to the landscape. It's what appealed to its German owner Volker Bethke who arrived in Sri Lanka 20 years ago and has taken root. And it's what delights visitors, most of whom arrive here on a journey of discovery rather than tourism.

Villa Rosa can arrange week-long Ayurveda courses, combining massage, yoga and meditation - great news for a massage junkie like me. I've been massaged halfway round the world - in a dimly lit room at the base of Nepal's Annapurna range; by twin masseurs in an uptown spa in New York; by Buddhist monks in a Bangkok monastery. Sri Lankans, I discover at the Villa Rosa, go in for plenty of oil and a lot of simian-style scratching, followed by herbal steam baths.

The next morning, after blissful sleep, Karu accompanies me to the captivatingly named "Temple of the Tooth" in the centre of Kandy. It houses Sri Lanka's most sacred Buddhist relic, a molar of the Lord Buddha himself, said to have been smuggled out of India in the hair of a princess in 1542. Today, it resides in a seven-deep nest of gold caskets, locked behind silver doors. The faithful, curiously, bring it breakfast and lunch, queuing to offer curry and rice and, perhaps, coconut sambal.

That night, I succumb to my inner tourist and take in the Kandyan dancers at the city's cultural centre. Euro-tourists watch as the traditional mask dance is performed - symbolising the killing of a cobra by a Gurula bird. "This is usually performed to drive away evil spirits," my programme notes tell me, "and is still being used today as a method of psychiatric treatment." We all stand for the Sri Lankan national anthem and file out into the cool night.

I leave Kandy on the morning train, meandering through forests of pine and eucalyptus towards the hill stations of Nuwara Eliya and Bandarawela in the southern Highlands. For 500 rupees, the observation carriage at the rear of the train offers fantastic views, softer seating and the chance to share spiced chickpeas with a family of Sinhalese on their way to a wedding in the hills.

The clickety-clack is meditative, and your eye seeks out the incongruous in the landscape. A man sits on a discarded sofa in the middle of the rainforest. Vermillion hibiscus grows lazily over a pile of mattresses dumped beside a waterfall. A woman breaks rocks with a chisel, her washing strung out overhead like prayer flags. Another makes bricks by hand, beneath a sign saying, "This way to the Giga Hut, the leading edge in superhighway". A water buffalo treads rice, watched by a man on a mobile phone. This is where eras and worlds collide. In Sri Lanka, computers are switched on at an auspicious time, as decreed by the local astrologer. Marriages are ordained by horoscope.

The train climbs. Boys in blue shorts play cricket on dusty fields. Butterflies dance. In Bandarawela, Karu meets me from the train for the short journey up to Kirchhayn Bungalow - once a 700-acre tea plantation, now reduced to the 50 still owned by the Bostock family after the government's nationalisation of the industry in the early 70s. The tea here is the connoisseur's choice, I am told, growing above 4,000 feet. I sit on the veranda, sipping it in the very place it was grown, while a manservant delivers spiced ginger biscuits on a china plate. Had the wireless been broadcasting an address from George VI, I wouldn't have been at all surprised.

Kirchhayn doesn't deal in fluffy towels or well-stocked mini-bars. But it does have vast wooden four-posters and a sense that time will leave you be. It has double-height ceilings and bags of authentic charm. The books are dog-eared and well-loved; the silver-framed photos are of the Bostocks on the croquet lawn. The interior has changed little since the 30s - though the bathrooms are being updated, and a swimming pool and tennis court are being added. Nice. But it's unnecessary. The place has a pace and a charm all of its own. As we head back to the coast, a hand-painted sign overhead reads, "Thank you for preserving the salubrious climes of Bandarawela." Salubrious climes indeed.

We pass through the gem-mining area of Ratnapura, past relics of the Dutch, Portuguese and British rule, past the art deco theatre, which stands to attention beside a series of ramshackle huts that might blow down in a stiff wind.

Of course, Sri Lanka got more than a stiff wind. On my final night, I stay in Bentota, on the south-western coast of the country, where there is no avoiding the legacy of the Boxing Day tsunami. Taru Villas is right on the beach, small and perfectly formed, slim and chic, like a fashion model. Each of its nine rooms faces a different direction, ensuring a fabulous degree of privacy for guests. Its arched, whitewashed architecture is furnished with antique stone carvings, saffron drapes, Indian silks and Kithul palm wood. The result is harmonious and serene. The paintwork, I am told, is retouched daily.

My veranda looks out on tall coconut palms and beyond to the ocean, and 5pm brings tea and a delicate slice of coconut cake, accompanied by the chants from a nearby temple. The Colombo-to-Galle train trundles past the end of the garden - its cargo of men hanging from open doors and windows. They wave, you wave, your lives cross briefly, the touch as light as the wings of a moth.

It's only when you cross the track to reach the ocean's shallows - the water is so warm and benign, it feels like a dog licking your toes - that you truly realise the appalling cost of the tsunami. It took 38,000 lives on this island. One of the waiters accompanies me to the water's edge and recalls how the sea disappeared that day. "It was gone for 10 minutes," he says. "We walked out over the rocks and the coral. After five minutes, I became afraid. It didn't seem right. So we walked back towards the hotel and then the wave came."

It came, but remarkably, it spared Taru Villas entirely, despite devastating an area a few miles up the coast. Down the coast, of course, Galle took the hit. There's no doubt that scars remain - the flattened buildings at the roadside, the temporary camps still home to many. But, like the land itself, the country seems to be healing, growing, moving on. Tourists are returning, and rightly so. Sri Lanka may be shaped like a tear-drop, but the beauty of this place will make you smile.

Way to go

Getting there

Audley Travel (01869 276222, audleytravel.com) can organise an 11-night tour, including stays at The Beach, Taru Villas, Kirchhayn, Villa Rosa and the Deer Park in the cultural triangle for £1,525pp including flights, private chauffeur guide and entrance fees.